


Princess, I guess

by gayforroxane



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Asexual Jughead, Canon Asexual Character, Canon Divergence, Cuddling, F/F, Gen, M/M, Panic Attacks, constant touching lets be real, i really have no idea what this is, relationship negotiation I think
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-06
Updated: 2017-02-20
Packaged: 2018-09-22 08:40:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9597050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gayforroxane/pseuds/gayforroxane
Summary: Jughead and Archie start to build their relationship back up, one blunder, one hug, one fuck up at a time.Archie, predictably, messes up. Jughead, unpredictably, falls in love.Though, at the very least, he's very surprised when it happens.





	1. Chapter 1

It hasn’t been long enough since the last time Jughead Jones had to forgive someone for something.

It seems as though it’s the only thing he’s doing. He’s forgiving Archie for his latest blunder, forgiving his father for drunken misgivings or forgiving his sister for doing something sister-ish and mundane.

That night at the football game, he didn’t want a smile to pop up on his face, hadn’t wanted to forgive Archie, even with his condition of many nights and many burgers. The stretch of the muscles in his face is still new and deafening and goddamnit Archie it had to be you. You had to be the next person to make me smile.

The fourth of July weekend road trip hadn’t been meticulously planned. The point had been the wandering, the wondering, the possible drinking, the hypothetical joints. Obviously, the point hadn’t been Archie cancelling. For some reason, it hurt far more knowing that Archie had been with Grundy, had been with the school music teacher, had been having sex with a woman twice his age, than if Archie had, simply, been working with his father. The moment he had heard it, Jughead had known it was a bullshit excuse because Mr. Andrews liked him, enough to trust him with his son no matter what.

The lying made it all worse.

The fighting made it worse than that - they had pushed and ripped at the parts of each other that only they knew. The hidden, secret parts they kept between themselves. 

 _"Working with your dad, my ass, Archie. You talked to him weeks ago asking if we could head out and he’d been more excited than you. What’s her name, huh? Oh, don’t look so surprised, pal, I know you better than everybody in this town, I pay attention. You grew up, Arch, just in one summer. You’ll be crawling in girls by the time school rolls around and you’re already rolling in them. I thought that you would’ve had the decency to actually come up with a better lie, or wonder of wonders, tell your best friend the truth_."

_Archie had stood silent only for a few moments, his face flushed, blending away his freckles, staining the skin beneath his cheekbones._

_"You haven’t been my best friend in months, Jughead. You think I’m dumb? God, Jug, I know I’m not going to Harvard, but I’m not stupid enough to not notice that you’ve been hiding something from me, that you’ve been avoiding talking to me about anything important, about anything worth while. You want to talk about keeping secrets, where’s Jellybean? Where’s your mom? Why haven’t I see your dad around? I'm not the only one keeping secrets and some girl seems a hell of a lot less important than half of your fucking family disappearing."_

_There isn’t even a pause for breath this time._

_"Oh, fuck you, Archie. Fuck you. Sure, I've got secrets, but if I trusted you anymore, you'd know them. Clearly I made the right decision in not telling you, considering that you clearly don’t give a shit about me. You’re -"_

_"I’m all you’ve got, Jughead! You haven’t got anyone else, what’re you going to do if you push me away?"_

_"Fuck you, Archie. Fuck you and your self-righteousness, you are all I had, but you're gone and you've been gone for months. You're miles away from me, so far that I couldn't push you away if I tried because I can't fucking reach. You were my best friend, Arch. But you kept secrets, you went back on plans and something is happening with you! I'm fucking worried about you, pal, so fuck you. Fuck you, Andrews._

But Archie got in Reggie’s way for him, blacked out for a couple of moments and Jughead feels like shit, because really, Archie, you’ve been gone for months, I can handle them.

He’s had it far worse.

“Hey Jughead.”

He looks up and Betty is standing there, leaning one hip against the opposite side of the booth. Despite everything, Jughead can’t stop himself from liking her.

“Mind if I sit?” Her voice is soft, but firm, like she isn’t actually allowing him to refuse. He gives a slightly grand gesture to the bench across from him. She shakes her head, and moves to stand next to him, staring with one eyebrow raised until he scoots over, dragging his laptop with him, vaguely shocked and reluctantly impressed.

“Why have you and Archie been fighting?”

“What?” Jughead says, slightly mocking. “Golden Boy hasn’t told his favourite cheerleader yet?”

“Jug,” her voice is coloured with teasing and warning, “Don’t be an ass, okay? Leave that for Archie.”

“Fair point.” It’s a tiny apology and Betty smiles.

“So?” she asks, bumping shoulders with him lightly.

“We had a fight, Betty, he said some things, I said some things, it happened in the rain at dusk with many very manly tears and confessions of love.”

She rolls her eyes, leaning back in the booth, arms crossed over her cheerleading uniform. A waiter gives them a huge smile and sits a milkshake on the table before leaving. “It’s been bothering him for months. He was so happy after you two talked at the rally, Jughead. He misses you, a lot, more than he wants to admit.”

Objectively, he’s aware that Archie has to miss him - they’re best friends and have been for years, and therefore a big piece of the puzzle to miss - but he has trouble reconciling it in his mind. Jughead can miss Archie, but it doesn’t work the other way around. Archie has Betty and Veronica, even Kevin. He occasionally has Reggie and Moose and Cheryl if they’re feeling amiable and maybe (Jughead ignores the twisting of his gut) Ms. Grundy. They haven’t really talked about it, about whether or not there was actually an end to that, or if there was just a planned confession. Knowing that Archie has been missing him makes his the space just below his gut and above his hips clench, makes the sides of his heart and his ribs stitch and ache. He can’t tell if the feeling is something he wants.

He doesn’t look up at Betty, but he doesn’t need to. She knows him better than he would like her to.

“Of course he missed you, Jug, you’re his best friend.”

There’s something close to bitterness in her phrasing and Jughead winces internally, while his face twists into something mocking of teenage drama. “He’ll always miss you. I know that he's done some -"

“You’re not playing Devil’s Advocate, Betty,” Jughead says, reluctantly truthful, “Archie… he... We’re working on it. He owes me many burgers.”

“Maybe a hug or two,” she says with a smile.

Immediately, Jughead wants to shake his head and make some comment about being manly, something about douches who nod at each other and repress their emotions, like he did at the game. He hesitates, though, because Betty will see right through that. She’ll see straight into the insecurity that he’s trying to hide. _If I hug him I might cry and I’m not alright with that, not yet._ Instead he gives her a tiny smile that makes her eyes light up and her whole face crack open, slightly shocked, with something that looks like thoughtfulness and consideration, but predominately pleased. 

“Maybe.” Jughead shrugs. “If he asks nicely.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jughead might get that hug.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a fairly detailed outside perspective of a panic attack, if this bothers you, please don't read, I don't want to make any of you lovely folks uncomfortable.

When Archie talks to him at the rally, Jughead finally starts to realize just how well they know each other.

When Jughead says it's cool and Archie pauses, just looking at him, eyebrows raised, mouth tightened back into his face, he knows that he's asking his silent permission for a hug. Jughead hates that his voice cracks when he tells Archie they won't hug in front of the entire town. He'd never had his gut ache from loss and his heart pound from excitement, not all at the same time. Archie knows that he’s feeling stuff in his gut that he’d rather not. He arches his eyebrow, cocks his head to the side and knows that Archie knows he means to say, ‘I told you so, Arch. Of course, she won’t talk to Weatherbee with you, she’s manipulating you, fucking cougar.’ Archie knows, Jughead knows. It's all testament to how long they've known each other - to the distance they've created, to the apologies they have yet to say, the things they have yet to explain. It's a myriad of difficult conversations hiding behind every smile. Before Archie runs back to the field, he gives Jughead a quick, wide, lightning strike of a grin and he can’t help the smile that picks up in return. He can’t stop it even if he really wanted to.

“Hey Jughead.”

He knows that voice, but he refuses to look up. He refuses to let himself smile, doesn’t allow it to sprawl over his face like a contended kitten.

“Can –” Archie’s voice cracks and Jughead looks up sharply, hands stilling across the keyboard.

_Archibald Andrews Archibald Andrews Archibald Andrews Archibald Andr_

Archie looks… small. For the first time since before the summer, he stands with his shoulders slightly hunched in on himself, one hand reaching up to grip at the strap of his backpack, the other tucking into the skin at the back of his neck, shy and insecure. Jughead blinks once. Twice. He feels a surge of protectiveness. For a fleeting moment, he wants to wrap the other boy in a blanket and take him to the coast, like they’d planned to do for the Fourth of July weekend. He wants to take his football gear and letterman jacket and all the expectations they come with and leave them in Riverdale, he wants to leave the guitar and the stress it brings, the memories of Ms. Grundy it undoubtedly carries. It’s enough to make Jughead clear his throat, tapping his fingers against the keyboard, embarrassed and slightly ruddy. He hopes the lights of Pop’s obscure his face from the other boy.

“C – could I sit here?” Archie is standing on the far side of the booth, the same as Betty the day before.

Jughead wonders if Betty put Archie up to this. His actions are mirroring hers so well – though for once she had been the more confident party – and they both are using similar words. Maybe, Jughead muses, they just know each other that well, are just that succinct and synchronized. His mind wanders briefly over his own habits. Are there any that Archie has stolen from him? Has he stolen any from Archie?

He doesn’t know what to do with this shy, on edge redheaded boy. Even when they’d been friends and they had trusted each other with everything, their conversations had seldom drifted into the deep or difficult. They had been mutual distractions for one another, a means of escape, an anchor into new worlds.

“It’s got your name on it. Metaphorically, of course.” The half-hearted joke makes Archie smile, and Jughead ducks his head, nose wrinkling in fondness.

As Archie sits, they’re completely silent. Jughead tugs at the sleeves of his jacket once or twice, pulls at his collar, stretches it away from his collarbones, frowns as Archie’s eyes get stuck there, tracing along the skin. Jughead snorts. “Dude, my eyes are up here.”

Archie’s eyes are moving up to meet his in a moment, big and wide, his cheeks flushed. He looks down and to the left. When he doesn’t say anything more, Jughead can feel the skin of his hands and face pull against the wrongness of _quiet unsure scared nervous wrong wrong wrong Archie_.

Pop brings them two plates piled high with extra fries and huge burgers. Jughead knows that one of the burgers has no pickles, no onions, but extra cheese, while the other with everything except tomatoes because Archie has always hated them. He forgets that Pop has their order memorized. Weeks upon weeks upon years of summers spent together here skip across his mind like stones and Jughead ignores the feeling that wells up in him, stubborn and insecure. Pop doesn’t really serve anyone anymore, unless it’s one of his favourites. (He usually brings Jughead his burgers, sits down across from the boy and forces him to talk, asking about his writing and politics and what’s happening in the world, but never school, or his father, or his sister. Recently, Archie hasn’t been a sanctuary topic of conversation either). Jughead hesitates for a moment, giving Pop a faint smile as he sets the plates down, before looking at Archie. He trusts Pop. He doesn’t mind if he hears the person he’s allowing himself to be for a few moments.

“Arch, what’s going on?”

Jughead’s voice is unbearably soft, still firm around the edges, but he sounds so much like Jellybean that he stops to remind himself to breathe for a moment. Pop’s face is careful, slightly guarded. The old man’s eyes look shinier than usual and he takes a steadying breath as he moves back towards the counter, one hand on Jughead’s shoulder, squeezing as he goes.

Archie looks up. He’s looking up at Jughead for the first time since they were little and the gap of what is now a half an inch was six. They had both been such gangly boys, but Archie had been small enough for him to jump up onto Jughead’s shoulders, giggling when they stumbled. His eyes are wide, but kind of distant, kind of frantic. His hands are shaking as he reaches them across the table, catching around the plates. Even from his side of the booth, Jughead can hear Archie’s breaths coming in and out harsher than before, a little more laboured, a little rough. The skin of his face, usually pink, and dotted with freckles has gone red, sweat gathered in the corners of his forehead, clinging to his skin and his hair. He brings a hand up to his chest to press against his breastbone, wincing. Jughead’s eyes are flitting across Archie, watching as the symptoms present themselves one by one, cautious, and quick. He reaches out and grabs both of his hands in a tight, nearly bruising, grip.

“Archie,” he says, voice a little harder than before, tilting up at the end in the form of a question. He’s never watched Archie have a panic attack before, has only (and occasionally) spoken to the boy through bathroom doors, listening to the ragged breathing and quiet sobs. Archie’s eyes dart up to meet his, before clenching tight, the muscles in his jaw tensing, the hands in Jughead’s seizing.

“J-J-Jug-g-ie,” he says, shuttering as he inhales. “Fuck,” he gasps, exhaling, glancing at Pop, who’s moving over to their table quickly, looking concerned. Jughead glances around as he stands awkwardly, still holding Archie’s hands, checking the restaurant for other patrons. It’s nearly four o’clock in the morning on a Tuesday night, and the diner is appropriately empty.

“Son, is there –”

“I got it, Pop,” he interrupts, slightly sharper than he means to be, fighting a rise of bile forming in the back of his throat. He’s angry, can feel it biting at the edges of his words and his teeth, wanting out. He’ll wants to fight whatever has Archie panicking. He takes a breath and flashes Pop a tiny smile, just managing to cock up the corners of his mouth in reassurance. Judging by the older man’s face, he doesn’t succeed. “I’ve got him, Pop.” His voice is gentler this time and the man blinks in surprise. “He’ll be fine, I promise, I can get him through it. Will you bring some water?” He can’t bring himself to make any sarcastic comments or witty jokes. Everything he says burns up on his tongue like chili powder, and all he can think about is Archie and more Archie. He sits down in the booth next to Archie, pressing into the boy’s side slightly. Half-expecting him to back himself into the corner of the booth he slips an arm around Archie’s waist, keeping him close. Jughead swallows against a something that builds up in his throat when the other boy melts into him, chest still heaving, fingers clenching spastically in his shirt.

“Arch, listen to me, can you hear me?” He can feel him nod from where his face is tucked into his neck. He grabs one of Archie’s hands and presses it against his own chest, overexaggerating his breathing, drawing out the inhales and deepening the exhales. “Archie, look at me. Can you smell the constant greasiness, hey, buddy?” He makes a funny little noise in the back of throat and Jughead winces when he thinks that may have been a laugh. “Can you see the big red signs in the windows?” He watches Archie’s eyes flicker to the windows and his breath momentarily calm. He keeps going. He talks about the colours in the booths and the fabric of Archie’s letterman jacket. He has him dip his fingers into the water, feeling the cold water under the beds of his fingernails. He moves Archie out of the booth slowly, until he’s sitting on the floor, his back to the seat, legs straight out in front of him. Gripping at his feet, Jughead says his name softly and slowly until he curls his toes in and out, flexing his feet, grounding down into the tiled floors.

It takes twenty, thirty, forty minutes and Jughead hurts by the time it’s over. Watching his best friend go through a panic attack, watching someone he cares about so deeply and trusts so strongly lose themselves has him shaken to the core. “Drink some water,” he orders shortly after Archie breaths normally for a few moments, hands still clenched in the fabric of his jeans. He nods tightly. Jughead reaches a hand towards him and flinches back when Archie pulls in towards himself, away from him. He carefully moves a few inches away from where he’d been sitting, pressed up against Archie’s side, one hand on the back of his neck, playing with his bright bright hair. He makes a tiny noise in the back of his throat and grips at his jeans.

“I’m sorry, Jug,” Archie’s voice cracks across the words as he says them, hoarse from crying. He looks up at Jughead and his eyes are red.

“I’m assuming you didn’t arrange a panic attack for four oclock in the morning at Pop’s, dude,” Jughead says half-heartedly. “It’s not your fault.”

“I should be –”

“You should be what, Arch? Stronger? Better? Mental health’s a bitch, pal, and being the star quarterback doesn’t stop it from being like that.” Archie doesn’t say anything, bringing the water up to his mouth and taking careful, mechanical sips. Jughead sighs.

“If I had a panic attack would you think I was weak?”

“What?” Archie says, snapping his head quickly to look over at Jughead. “No, of course not. Jug, has –”

“Christ, Archie, it was an example, I’m fine.” Relief washes over Archie’s expression and Jughead lets a smile tuck into the corner of his mouth.

“See? Obviously, I don’t think you’re weak. Your ability to punish yourself for things that aren’t your fault is a rare and wondrous talent you have there, my friend.”

Archie takes a deep, shuddering breath. “Grundy – I – she – I don’t know what to do, I’m scared, Jug.”

“It’s her fault, Arch, you know that.”

“I don’t want to hurt her, okay, she doesn’t deserve…”

Jughead forces himself to take a long, slow inhale before he rips into Archie for blaming himself for being raped by an older woman in a position of power over him who’s been manipulating him for months. God, he’s gonna fight Grundy so hard.

“I know that it was statutory rape,” Archie says, stuttering over the words. Jughead watches Pop tense up from his spot behind the bar, his back to them. “But I consented.”

“Lawfully –”

“Fuck the law, Jughead, it was still wrong. I was still wrong. And now I don’t know what to do, because she’s teaching me music and I – I love it, Jug, I can’t give that up.”

“ _I don’t care_ ,” Jughead snaps, turning towards Archie, making fierce eye contact with him. Archie balks for a moment, caught off guard. “She broke the law, she raped a sixteen-year-old boy.” Jughead’s voice breaks, and Archie just stares at him, mouth lax, brows furrowed. “She hurt my best friend, Archie. I won’t let her do it again.”

For a few seconds, nothing happens. Pop, behind the bar, is turned to face them, eyes bright with tears. Jughead is staring at Archie, wide-eyed, frantic, and angry. Then Archie dives towards Jughead, grabbing him by the arm and pulling him in, into his lap, wrapping his arms tightly around his shoulders. It’s by far the worst hug Jughead has ever had the pleasure of being apart of and he loves it. He clings to Archie’s shoulders, muttering into his hair as he cries into the soft material of his black hoodie. His hands span the entire width of Jughead’s back, from left ribs to right. Archie smells like the honey shampoo he’s used for years, like sweat and salt and sugar. He smells a little like Pop’s burgers. Jughead smiles, big and unstoppable and wide and laughs into Archie’s hair when he sees Pop staring in surprise.

Even if Archie is crying, even he’s suffering from panic attacks caused by cougar music teachers, he’s with Jughead. Even if Archie’s hands across his ribs hurt the bruises there from weeks before, they’re safe, here, on the floor of Pop’s dinner in the middle of the nights with Fred undoubtedly worried, if he has Archie so close to him, he can’t get hurt. Right now, that’s all he needs.

In the morning, this will sound ridiculous. It will sound completely and utterly _mushy_ and _gross_ and _holy fuck Jughead get your shit together._

In the morning, Fred will be worried and they will have conversations they need to have. Archie will cry as he explains to his father what happens. He will lean into Jughead when he explains why they stopped talking over the summer. Archie will shake when he tells his father he was at Sweet Water River and heard a gunshot and if it wasn’t Jason Blossom dying, who was it? In the morning, Archie will notice the fact that Jughead winces he hugs him and refuses to change in front of him. They will have an argument about Jughead’s father. He will finally tell Archie where his sister, and mother, have gone.

But for now, in the light of Pop’s, they have their evening of youth, however mangled and bloody. The reckoning can wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is ridiculous I'm actually updating something wow look at me go.  
> If you liked it, lemme know? If there are any directions you think would be interesting, or if there are any ideas anyone has for the story lemme know I'd love to hear them.  
> also, I'm such utter trash for this show that my girlfriend and I have actually planned a date to watch the third episode when it airs on Netflix in Canada on Friday hOLY HELL IM PUMPED. 
> 
> finally, 'misunderstood' mentioned that it would mean a lot to them if I made sure Jug was asexual in the story, and in light of one of my friends coming out as ace today, I have decided to keep with that part of canon. The next update will no doubt happen after the next episode airs. :) 
> 
> Thank you, my lovelies and have a wonderful day.  
> xx mads 
> 
> my tumblr is blue-by-auster if you wanna come bother than me, though it is to be noted that I'm lazy and not on there a lot.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here is the morning of reckoning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick little warning for mentions of abuse, rape (not described), and physical injury. If any of this makes you uncomfortable, please don't read. :)

They only got a couple of hours of sleep, blanketed over one another in Archie’s double bed, done as the dead.

Fred walks in at five, ready to ask questions, to shout, to demand, but Jughead’s arm is thrown over Archie’s chest, his leg pinning his waist down, his head buried in his neck. That gives him pause. The light from the rising sun is enough to let him notice that Jughead’s shirt has ridden up. The skin is not unbroken, the way it should be. It is not smooth, and pale, and boy-like. It is covered in bruises, mottled like the fading feathers of a dying phoenix. Reds and purples, blacks and yellow. The red is the center of the diagonal lacerations, the purple is the edges. The blacks and yellows are the bruises that line his ribs, round in most places, the size of a man’s fist, smaller and pointier in some places, the shape of a man’s boot.

He leaves them to sleep, rocks settled into his gut. He doesn’t sleep, piecing together bits of a puzzle he’s missed for years. The sneaking around, the private, worshipfulness of the treehouse. The constant sleepovers. The departure of Jughead’s mother, a quiet divorce. Jellybean’s sudden desire to be somewhere else, her three-year-in-advance solace of university.

Fred cries, thinking of the boy he has failed to treat as a second son.

 

On their morning of reckoning, Archie brings his hand up to the back of Jughead’s neck, playing with the hair that sticks out from beneath his beanie. His breath stops before it falls from his mouth. He’s gone a few moments later, reaching around him to grab mugs, body brushing up against his back. Jughead’s fingers shake slightly as he takes one. Archie smiles like the sun rising.

When Fred walks in, Jughead can feel the line of Archie’s body tensing beyond his now-natural strength. Slowly, he leans into him, offering the same comfort his friend has been offering him. He lets Archie press the entire line of his body against him, their shoulders brushing, Jughead only an inch taller than Archie, feeling like an adult, like someone huge and imposing. For a few moments, there is only sarrachine sweetness, the air heavy like molasses, cloying like too-much honey in tea. Jughead feels as though he has been doused in the remnants of a long undiscovered tomb, buried under the cobwebs and age-old treasures.

"Son," Fred says, and that's all it takes. Archie is collapsing under the strain of keeping secrets for months, under the building pressure of wanting to protect and allowing himself to be protected by others. He lets out one tiny sound, like a sob caught in the trap of his throat before it can begin, before Jughead is on him, wrapping arms around his waist, and pulling his head into neck, murmuring into his skin. It makes him uncomfortable. Being so close to Archie, allowing himself to be so vulnerable, so open, so protective of someone he loves so deeply (in front of witnesses, no less) makes his stomach churn. It makes him feel safe, being close to the boy he's loved since they were just kids (even in front of witnesses).

"Arch, we're moving over to the couch, okay, your dad will bring your disgusting vehicle-for-cream-and-sugar coffee with him," Jughead says, startling a laugh from Fred, yanking a tiny noise from Archie.

Jughead heart aches in his chest.

Settling themselves onto the couch proves to be a more difficult task than Jughead had previously thought, mostly because Archie has become the largest, most affectionate octopus/puppy cross species in the entire world. The inherent vulnerability that the situation brings pulls his love of touch, his tactile instincts out. Jughead sits behind Archie, his long legs drawn up on either side of the redheaded boy's hips, fingers carding through soft, sleep-sweat hair. Archie collapses into him. He tucks his knees into his chest, one arm hooking over Jughead's leg, and the other slipping across his own chest, a physical barrier between the world and his heart.

The classic demonstration of defensiveness makes Fred want to cry.

Jughead can feel the entire line of Archie against his front. He can feel the pattern of his breaths, the measured inhales and exhales, the bits that catch on the undertow, choking around sobs and sea water. It feels more intimate than helping him through a panic attack, than sleeping next to him in a bed that stinks of boy-sweat, and hormones, and honey shampoo.

"Arch," Fred says, sitting in an arm chair across from the couch. His face is calm, composed. Jughead sends him silent thanks. Seeing his father break down in fear, or discomfort is the last thing that Archie needs. "Take your time, son. Jug and I can wait a long time for you." Somehow, the words avoid condescension, avoid impatience, and settle completely on reassurance.

Archie relaxes further against Jughead.

He squeezes his knee.

Jughead noses the back of his head, ignoring the tension that spreads over Fred at the gesture, ignores his own skipping heart and doubting mind. Archie nods.

"Archie and I never did our roadtrip on the Fourth of July weekend, Mr. Andrews, which I assume you already know," Jughead says, listening to Archie's heartbeat through the muscle and sinew and bone of his back. "He told me he couldn't, because he was working with you." Fred raises an eyebrow. "I, being the sleuth that I am, called bullshit."

"Language, Jughead."

Archie snorts.

Jughead rolls his eyes. "Archie didn't come because of a girl. At the time, I assumed that was the end of it. A few weeks ago, though, I was walking by the school music room, and realized that I couldn't have been farther from the truth."

In the privacy of his head, all wrapped up in worry and Jughead, Archie wonders at the tone of voice that his friend has fallen into. It sounds like the narration of a book. He wonders if this is the voice Author Jughead uses on his novel.

Fred's eyes are beginning to take on a look of understanding mixed with horror, and Jughead winces internally.

Archie tenses against him, pulling his knees closer into himself, curling away from Jughead. The dark-haired boy frowns, pushing away the lash of hurt that strikes through him like a whip. The broken, sardonic part of his mind murmurs _oh Juggie, always indulging the clichés. That's not what a belt or a whip feels like, is it?_

"It started in the summer," Archie says, voice shaky. "After I was coming home from work one day. She was driving by and it was like 102 degrees and she offered me a lift." He exhales slowly. "She wanted more than a lift. And I let her because I didn't know what else to do or say and because my body was reacting and I was too distracted to say no. And we were… at Sweet Water River, on July Fourth, when I heard the gunshot. When we heard the gunshot."

"This is girl that you and Jughead were fighting about," Fred says slowly, "The one where you knew you had to do the right thing, even if it meant losing her." His gaze goes sharp, and misty at the same time. "She told you not to go to Sheriff Keller, didn't she?"

Archie nods, looking exhausted. "She said we'd go to jail, that I'd get expelled, that -" His voice cracks and Jughead's grip tightens in his hair, fingers pushing into muscles, smoothing over the soft cotton of his white tee shirt. "That she'd lose her job."

Fred inhales sharply. "Ms. Grundy," he says gently, ducking his head to try and make eye contact with his son. "It was Ms. Grundy, wasn't it?"

Jughead nods when Archie says nothing, looking lost. Fred seems to steel himself for a moment, drawing himself into a concentrate of father and informer. "You know that what she did was -"

"Statutory rape." Archie voice is carefully blank. Jughead is still reserving judgement for Mr. Andrews, knows that there are still ways for the man to revert to older ways, to pat his son on the back and say 'well, you'll live' before moving on. If that happens, Jughead isn't sure what he'll do. Protecting Archie at all costs is high up on his priority list, and Fred could deserve a broken nose for that. Fred gives a tiny sob, like Archie had earlier. Jughead grimaces.

Neither Andrews says anything and Jughead sighs. "The two of you need to go and see Sheriff Keller, Mr. Andrews." When Fred looks up, startled, opening his mouth to protest, Jughead cuts him off with a glare. "There isn't time to wait. The longer you wait, the more your son is hurt by an abusive, manipulative bitch."

"Yes," Fred says after long pause, his eyes holding his son's. "We'll go and talk to the Sheriff. Today, Jughead don't look at me like that."

"Can--" Archie cuts himself off, swallowing, shifting away from Jughead slightly. "Jug, do you --" He swallows. "Will you come with us?"

His voice is tiny, scared, and Jughead feels a flash of anger flood him, emptying into his fingers and his toes, making them feel stretched and electric. A woman is the reason Archie is hurting, the reason that his friend is too scared to speak to his father about something this important. "It's not like I've got any other plans," Jughead says, pulling Archie back into his chest slowly, letting his fingers twist through his ginger hair, brush over the line of his jaw gently.

"Before that," Fred says, his gaze fixed on Jughead, caught between curiosity, guilt, despair, and thoughtfulness, "Where were the two of you last night?"

"I had a panic attack," Archie says, a little more colour in his voice, "I knew Jug would be at Pop's so I went there, but I had a panic attack. About… Ms. Grundy."

"And Jughead…?"

"He got me through it, dad, he helped me remember how to breathe."

Jughead, for a split second, forgets how to breathe. _How ironic,_ his brain supplies.

Fred nods. His eyes practically scream _thank you_ at Jughead, who nods in detached acknowledgement.

"One more thing, Jughead," Fred says. His voice has gone soft again, gooey like Archie's does when he needs to talk about something that meet sting, "Are you gonna tell me what's going on with your dad? With the bruises on your back?" 

Jughead freezes, pulling away from Archie in a moment, pushing himself back over the couch, standing in blue plaid pajama bottoms that pool around his feet and an oversized shirt of Archie's that shows off his collarbone, about to give in to _flight_.

"Juggie?" Archie asks, moving to stand in front of him, resisted the urge to go closer. His eyes snap to meet Archie, guarded and frowning. "Don't do this," he says, stepping forward. "Don't run, Jug, please, let us help."

"There isn't anything to do," Jughead snaps, all while leaning his body towards Archie's, "There isn't enough evidence, there aren't enough complaints from neighbours about noise, there aren't enough scars on my body, or concerned classmates, or teachers, or friends." His cheeks are red, his fists are pressed against Archie's chest in a fake premise of security. "Not enough people care, Mr. Andrews. There aren't enough of you to lock him away."

Archie looks like he's on the verge of tears, but his voice stays strong and steady, "How long?" Jughead doesn't say anything.

"Juggie."

"After mom left, after Jellybean left."

Archie's loses all of its colour in an instant. Fred, watching them both, closes his eyes against the sight for a moment.

"Jellybean left on the 20th of June." Archie's voice monotone. Jughead just looks at him, devoid.

"Yes."

"No," Archie says, voice cracking, going up to grip Jughead's shoulders, pulling him in, latching around his like finely woven lace. He presses his mouth to his temple, to his jaw, to the top of his head and his forehead, and Fred watches Jughead break. His hands come around to grasp at Archie's back and his breath heaves out in a sob.

The whole world is silent against the grief of these boys. Other than their sobs, there is little to hear. Fred fights off his own.

Archie breaks through the silence, shattering it, balling up their innocence and tossing it away, punching their childhoods in the gut.

"I'm so sorry, Princess." Jughead doesn't say anything, just grips Archie tighter. He whispers something against Archie's neck, bit-off in the middle of heaving breaths.

"'m not your princess, Arch."

Archie smiles, his teeth like razor blades, the roof of his mouth tasting like leather, his tongue feeling as though it's slipping against someone else's. Someone with lilac perfume. He presses closer to Jughead, eradicating the space between them, breathing in greasy hair that always smells like Pop Tate's burgers, and lemon soap.

"Yes, you are."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> holy hell.  
> i have been writing for two hours straight y'all better love this chapter. ANYWAYS lemme know what you think, as always, and if you have any suggestion/concerns/critiques, just leave a comment?
> 
> love you all and have a wonderful day,  
> xx mads 
> 
> if you wanna come bother me, my tumblr is actually oops-i-wrote-a-thing, which is not that i had before i apologize.


	4. Chapter 4

A sheriff’s office is place of good, and bad news, rest, and unrest, sobs, and smiles, and psychopaths.

Today, there is Jughead Jones, and Archie Andrews.

Even the sheriff, though he’s there, and even Fred Andrews, though he’s there, are caught on the opposite side of a spell of hunched shoulders, and careful, needy, gentle touches. Jughead sits across from him, their knees skidding. They’re both on the floor. The Sheriff and his dad are a cautious seven feet from them, sitting in armchairs, their arms crossed over their chests.

Archie’s hands skid across his, bumping over the valleys and mountains of his knuckles, the tiny brooks and springs of his skin. He wonders if this is one of the only places on his body that isn’t spotted with moles.

Archie opens his mouth, the words _you know you have to tell them, Jug_ flitting over his mind.

“I know,” Jughead says.

Sheriff Keller frowns.

“How?” Archie asks, slipping their fingers together, overlapping, caught together, the knots on a sailing ship, holding the sails ready, moving the pirates along.

Squeezing his fingers, Jughead's hands pick to the hem of his loose, black tee-shirt. Archie’s fall to his lap. He stands, pulling his shirt over his head as he goes, tossing it onto Archie’s shoulders. Like a curtain, moving the shirt off his head reveals the stage.

Though Fred Andrews had seen bits, had seen pieces, a section of a lower back in low light, he hasn’t seen all of it.

Archie staggers up, clenching Jughead’s shirt in his hands. He exhales sharply, his voice cracking on a sob.

In the warm lighting of Sheriff Keller’s office, Jughead’s skin looks soft. His collarbones pool with ocean water from the very bottom of the sea, the dark and the deep. His arms are pecked in bruises, the rings of coarse fingers, rough hands circling them. His forearms are slashed with vertical welts. The skin of his stomach is purple, stretched with bright purple bruises, edged with yellow, and green. His ribs peak in violent reds, and arching blues, mixing and mixing and mixing, never making lavender.

“Jughead,” Sheriff Keller says, palming a hand down his face, the wrinkles around his eyes and mouth more pronounced. He turns to face him, mouth caught in a perfect line.

Archie tugs Jughead’s shirt up to his face, holding it over his face, showing only his eyes. His hand reaches up to grab his hair, the red slipping under his fingertips. His back is built from belt marks, crissing and crossing, using his spine as a highway. A burn picks its way over his right kidney.

“If you’re going to tell me that you tripped, or that you wiped out on the ice —“

“I won’t.”

The Sheriff nods, eyes skipping down the boy’s torso. The skin around his mouth is taut, his hands are digging into the shirt of his uniform, resenting the law for a moment, for a split second of sheer anger at an anger being beaten by the person who’s supposed to love them most.

“When did this start?” The Sheriff asks, and his voice has punished itself into one of an upright man of the law, not one of a father, of a single parent, of a protector.

“June 27th.”

“Have you told anyone other than us?”

“No.”

“Do you suspect anyone knows?”

“No.”

“What m-method does your father primarily use?”

“Belt, and boots. The iron.”

This merits a pause. Archie has edged closer to Jughead, who refuses to look at him, watching the wall behind the Sheriff with steadfast boredom, unwavering attention. He can feel the warmth coming off Archie, hears the shift of his hand moving closer to his own. His palm furls open. Archie links their fingers, like they used to when they were kids. He has a flash of memory, a mirror, of doing the same thing in Jughead’s treehouse, late at night when Jughead pretended he wasn’t crying.

 _My parents like to shout,_ he would say, _it makes them feel better._

 _My parents like to laugh,_ Archie argued, _it makes them_ be _better_.

“Do you want to press charges?” Sheriff Keller’s voice is tight and roughly hewn, barking against his instincts.

“No,” Jughead says, “I want out.”

 

 

 A sheriff’s office is place of good, and bad news, rest, and unrest, sobs, and smiles, and psychopaths.

Today, there is Archie Andrews, and Jughead Jones.

He’s just finished pulling his shirt over his head, wincing against bruised ribs, against the lash of smarting skin, when Archie folds him like chocolate chips into batter, wrapping his arms carefully around Jughead’s waist. He stiffens, eyes darting to the Sheriff. Archie hesitates, pulling back, unwinding his arms, unfolded, unhinging, unbeing.

“Arch,” Jughead says, catching his hand as he moves. He takes a slow breath. 

“I…”

Sheriff Keller straightens from his spot against the desk.

“I… had sex. With, with, with Ms. Grundy, since the summer.”

“Oh god,” he says, hands twitching.

“I — I consented —”

“It doesn’t count in a court —”

“I know.” The Sheriff sighs and straightens, tries not to imagine what would happen if it were Kevin in this situation, his son instead of Fred’s. He feels molten curl in his stomach, arrows bustle from his heart, and he can’t imagine, won’t.

“Does anyone else know?”

“Uh, no.”

“In your vernacular, what does sex mean?” Archie tenses, blush blooming on his cheeks, breaking away from Jughead, crushing his arms around his chest to hide from his father.

“Uh, every—everything. All the way.”

Fred gives a short exhale, chewing roughly on his nails.

“Do you want to press charges?”

Archie doesn’t say anything.

“Archie —”

He and Jughead stare at each other, brown against grey and green and blue and rain.

“Yes.”

 

 

It takes months.

Months of saying it over, and over, of looks and comments in the hallways, some of disgust (for him and for her), some of sympathy, the occasional admittance of a similar situation (these ones always get hugs — the big, Archie Andrews kind, sunny, and all-encompassing).

She’s convicted of twelve to twenty-two years, after pleading guilty. The first page of the school paper says HALLELUJAH in big, bold letters. Archie loses his shit laughing at it, takes it home to show his dad, who chuckles and shakes his head, muttering about Jughead under his breath. 

It takes a day, for Jughead.

The Sheriff goes to his father, bangs on his door and pulls him out of a hangover with sharp words (both unofficial and official ones), threatening him with a court case.

He turns a lawful, blind-eye against Jughead spending his time at the Andrews house, collapsed onto a double bed, into a small room, into another life.

 

 

Fred Andrews doesn’t say a word when their touches turn constant.

He watches when they make waffles in the kitchen, tossing flour at one another. Jughead throws a handful of sugar at Archie, saying something about a sweet ass between laughter and bits of batter. When he huffs a laugh, going for the coffee machine, Archie flushes red up to his hair. Jughead gives him a cautious smirk. “

In the kitchen, Jughead? Really?” Is all he says, before he leaves the room, shouting over his shoulder about going to the office.

 

He never goes into the garage while Archie’s writing, because he asked him not to, muttering about privacy. He nods, smiling, and installs a doorbell as a joke. Jughead, however, seems to gets a free pass. 

 

Over Christmas, Jughead makes a small, lame excuse, attempting to excavate himself from the holiday.

“Christmas is just a capitalist tradition inspired by the plights of modern america and our failing economic system, Fred ―"

Fred just looks at him over the rim of his reading glasses, before flicking his eyes back down to his book.

“Archie's a mess in the kitchen, Jughead, and the two of you are in charge."

Jughead smiles.

 

He comes home one night, late (after a date with Hermione, though he’d refused to tell them because his boys loved to tease more than anything), and finds them both on the couch in front of a Star Trek episode, dead asleep. Jughead is sitting against the arm of the couch, pillows built up like rumours, with Archie lying in the v of his legs. His head is tilted back against Jughead’s sternum. One of his heads is a heavy weight over Jughead’s thigh. Their hands are clasped.

Fred blinks, smiles, and leaves.

 

They don’t tell anyone when they start dating. It happens naturally, a careful progression of improvised chords on a keyboard and a guitar.

They hold hands in Pop Tate's, gently, laughing and shoving one another. Veronica and Betty stare for a little bit. Kevin comments that the two of them are no longer the hottest gay couple in Riverdale. Archie shakes his head. "We'd never beat out B&V."

Jughead nods. "Well, considering none of us are actually gay or a walking stereotype, that award goes to you, Kevin. You can be the hottest gay couple all on your own."

Kevin rolls his eyes. 

 

It's an hour and a half after their first date, when Jughead finally tells Archie. 

"I don't like sex."

Archie doesn'r say anything, just breathing quietly in the small room, less irritating than the hum of a bumblebee, but lower, softer. 

"I'm asexual. It means I don't like sex, having or giving or anything, and if that's―"

"Jughead," Archie says, brushing his hand against his, "I don't care, okay? The last person I had sex with was my 35 year old music teacher who's now in jail, and I'm not really, well, feeling it. I'm sure I'll start to again, but that's not the point because if you don't want to have sex with me, I don't want to have sex with you."

He unfurls like a flower, smiling. 

"Thank God." 

There's a silence in the room, comfortable and heady, like a warm glass of hot chocolate. Jughead has to pull his courage out of his gut, coax it like a wild animal, until it swims up his throat, over his uvula, his tongue,  his teeth, his —

"I think kissing would be fine." 

Archie laughs, rolling over to face him, propping himself up on one elbow, brushing his fingers over Jughead's collarbones, eyes warm with affection. He stares, trailing his eyes over his face and throat and chest. Under the streetlights outside his window, Jughead, somehow, looks heavenly. Expressive eyes, unending. His skin is flawless, pale and smooth, spotted with leopard's marks. Jughead huffs an impatient breath out his mouth, trailing a lazy hand up to his face, curling around his neck and pulling Archie to meet him. Their mouths are dry, without caution, just slow, with the tempo of a slow ballad, elegant, and timeless. 

Archie makes a tiny noise in the back of his throat when Jughead licks across the seam of his lips before pulling away. 

"Arch?" he says, eyes wide, cheeks flushed. He falls a little bit farther with that expression, digs himself deeper into the rabbit hole. His heart pounds against his ribs. 

"Yeah, Jug?" 

"You think your dad will kill us if we sneak out for a burger?" 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we're done! its over! i haven't actually decided if i like it but i figured id go for it i apologize for the overuse of metaphors and nicknames.   
> hit me up on tumblr if wanna chat, or rant, or whatever. 
> 
> i have plans for a dark!jarchie fic that i've talking about with some of my pals, so that might be out in a week or so. you haven't gotten rid of me yet, friends
> 
> have a great day, lovelies!  
> xx mads
> 
> also ive changed my tumblr because imma problematic disaster so  
> @ timetravellingcabinetofwonders  
> is my new tumblr

**Author's Note:**

> So, I only really heard about Riverdale from a friend a couple days ago and I'm already obsessed, which is unfortunate, cause I didn't need another one. I also didn't ship Jughead/Archie until I started reading fic and now it's all I can see (but I also still really love Betty and Archie, and Betty and Veronica because you guessed it, I'm a disaster)  
> Anyways, I hope you enjoy. Lemme know what you think and I will hopefully keep on going. :)
> 
> Also, my tumblr is blue-by-auster and if y'all wanna talk/rant/whatever come hit me up.


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